Page 20 of Blazing Embers

“Strange, I thought having a PhD in astrophysics was educated.” I see her brows lift. “And, for the record, Victoria, you were never in the running to become my wife,” I point out. “I was clear up front that I don’t usually fuck staff but you were a pleasant enough distraction. I was also clear that we were a no-strings-attached consensual booty call whenever I desired. You agreed to those terms, which is why I had you sign a contract. Just like anyone else I’ve kept as a booty call over the years.”

“You bastard!” Victoria hisses.

Her slap is fast and sharp, a hot sting to my cheek that snaps my head sideways. I let her do it—she’s been begging for a reaction, after all. I stare her down while she stands there panting, eyes brimming with humiliation and hate.

“You can take that as my resignation, effective immediately.” Her eyes bore into mine, her chin raised. “I hope you’re happy with your American wife.”

“You saved me from firing you, like I should’ve done months ago,” I tell her. “Oh, and don’t try to take any of your clients with you. You’ll get a nasty surprise. Now get out of my apartment.”

“You’re going to be sorry,” Victoria says through clenched teeth. “I’m going to love watching you get slapped down a few pegs. So it’s with great pleasure that I tell you this. I reported you to the RMSAD. I told them you knew where one of their supposed deceased test subjects was.”

I clench my teeth and hands to keep myself from exploding. “You stupid bitch.” I shake my head. “You went snooping into classified files?”

“I’m not going down without swinging.” Victoria gives me a smug smile. “Who knows, maybe I’ll take over your firm once the RMSAD rewards me for the intel and they take you away.”

“Oh, Victoria.” I sigh. “You were always such a snake. I should let you face the consequences of what you just did. But I’m in a giving mood today, so I’m going to give you advice wrapped in awarning. Go home. Don’t stop for anything. Pack your bags and fuck off back to England and find a place to hide. Because it’s not me the RMSAD will be coming for. But you. Someone who had no authorization to access classified files. Sure, I may get a rap over my knuckles for your breach… but I’m the one that keeps them going.”

Her face pales, and she gasps, spins, and high-tails it out of the apartment. “I have a feeling I won’t be seeing her again,” I mutter.

Right then, a crash resounds from the dining room and Pavel yells, “Tara!” I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. “Ruslan. Get in here. Now!” There’s an urgency in his voice that spurs me into action.

I sprint into the dining room, expecting blood or glass or both. The entire table is overturned, food and plates everywhere, and Tara is doubled over, clutching her midsection, hunched as if she’s been gutted.

There’s blood. Way too much for a nosebleed or a period, pooling thick between her legs and painting the pristine white marble a horrifying crimson.

8

RUSLAN

For a moment, I freeze. The world warps and tunnels as I watch the sticky red river streak down Tara’s pants, her hands slipping and sliding uselessly on her thighs as she tries to stem the tide. She’s gasping. White as death. Her eyes lock on mine, wide and wild with terror—real, animal terror, not the mockery she’s given me so many times.

Pavel is at her side, hands hovering, not sure where to touch, panic written all over his face. “What do I do?” he pleads, but I barely hear him over the roar in my ears.

“Get the car. NOW.” My voice is a whip crack. “Call the nearest private clinic. Tell them to prep for OR, possible hemorrhage.”

Pavel bolts. I’m on my knees, yanking at the cords knotted around my brain as I try to remember first aid, trauma protocols, anything. I grab a napkin and press hard between her legs, feeling the blood pulse hot through my hands. “Stay with me,” I bark. “Don’t you fucking die on me, Tara.”

She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper.

“You think I’m going to die —” she gasps, lips splattered red, her teeth already chattering as cold sweat beads in her hairline. Her pupils are huge, like black holes about to swallow her whole. Another wave of pain hits her belly and draws her knees to her chest. “Ahh.” Tara pants. “It’s… it’s… a bit painful.”

“By the look of it, I’d say it's more than a bit painful.” I lean over her and pull a piece of bread from her hair. “Is it just your stomach?”

“I guess,” Tara croaks. “Just…” she breathes. “Get…” gulps. “I'm going to the shower.”

“No, fucking way,” I tell her, grabbing the table cloth and creating a diaper-type bandage. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we have time to get you sanitary towels.” My eyes are drawn to the blood still pooling out of her. “Fuck Tara. You’re hemorrhaging badly.”

“Please…” Tara says, her eyes getting heavy. Her voice still drips with sarcasm. “Don’t sugar coat it for my benefit.”

The next few minutes are hell. Pavel is back with a massive leather coat—he wraps it around Tara, and I scoop her up, blood and all, ignoring how the sticky heat is soaking my shirt and bleeding through my sleeves. Pavel has an armload of towels that he is mopping up in the elevator, which seems to have slowed down. When it eventually bings to the ground, I tell the night watchman he needs to get the elevator and the hallway in my apartment cleaned up. Then I barely notice the cold as we sprint through the front door, Tara cradled in my arms, her head lolling back against my shoulder, her hands curled into twin claws across my chest.

Pavel’s got the car already roaring, the doors gaping open, and I slide her in, then climb in, slamming the door behind me overthe still-bleeding mess of Tara’s body. Pavel guns it. Tires shriek down the half-empty Moscow avenue. I’ve got one hand around her, one hand bracing her head, and all my desperate words are English, Russian, whatever will keep her in this world until we get to the clinic.

“Stay with me,” I bark. “Do you hear me? That’s an order!”

My palm is sticky with more blood than I want to believe is possible to lose and still maintain a pulse. With every bump in the road, Tara moans. She’s barely conscious, teeth chattering so hard I’m shocked they haven’t shattered in her skull.

“My stomach is on fire,” she mutters, her body straining against the pain—and then she goes slack.

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